


Chrysanthemum

by SpringInSilver



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mind Meld, Post-X-Men: Dark Phoenix (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 10:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20851787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpringInSilver/pseuds/SpringInSilver
Summary: "In a way, this is everything Charles has ever dreamed of."After the events of X-Men: Dark Phoenix, Charles and Erik wind up in Paris with hearts laid bare, and reconciliation on their lips.





	Chrysanthemum

**Author's Note:**

> So I've never written for Cherik before, even though they're one of my top ships, and I thought now is the time to change that. This came out all in a rush really, but it feels so good to be inspired again for the first time in an age that I've tried to run with it, and this is the result. Cherik's final scene in Dark Phoenix really is such a treasure, and I just had to write a little romantic something for them in that setting. I really hope you enjoy it, and please let me know your thoughts :)

In a way, this is everything Charles has ever dreamed of. Countless nights have been spent alone in his office, or his bedroom, or (on one solitary, painful occasion) Erik’s old room, thinking about the innumerable what-ifs, could-have-beens, would-have-beens and so forth. It’s an indulgence on his part, he knows, but it almost feels cathartic, to occasionally press the bruises that litter his very being and feel the ensuing ache, watch the mottled purple change to sickly yellow before bleeding back in.

He stopped doing that some time ago, but for a while, particularly after Cuba, it was one of the only ways he could keep himself going. Then, of course, he found other ways to cope with the loneliness and heartache, and the sun-bright fantasies of Erik’s smiling face faded into relative obscurity, concealed behind a carefully-placed veil and pushed into a darkened corner. 

He remembers hating himself for those moments of weakness.

_ He’s never coming back, you fool _ , he would tell himself. _ Let sleeping dogs lie and stop wallowing in the past. _

And yet here they are, sitting opposite each other outside a quaint little Parisian café, a chess board between them, bad blood drained from their systems and a faint, tentative whiff of hope in the air. And when Erik smiles (_ oh _, Charles thinks, something irrepressible squirming in delight beneath his ribcage) it is as though the sun has peeked from behind a cloud after a particularly violent storm. When is the last time he smiled at Charles like that? Full of mischief and brightness and something slightly flirtatious that has Charles all a-flutter (although he would never admit it, of course). 

“You’re staring, old friend,” the other man says, and damn it all if the sound of his voice, gentle and full of poorly-concealed mirth, doesn’t pull the pursed corners of Charles’ mouth into a small smile. 

“Am I really? Should I not be?” he replies, light and airy, and _ good god they’re flirting, they’re actually flirting and Charles has not felt this alive in thirty years. _

Erik tilts his head to one side, the long expanse of his neck exposed, and he seems to see something in Charles’ expression that makes him smirk. 

“You know I’m not going to go easy on you?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, my friend.”

This time, Erik’s smile is full of teeth, sharp and shark-like, a little like the old days, and yet there is still an undercurrent of warmth just beneath, softening those cutting edges. 

“Then in that case, may the best man win,” he says, playful, and Charles could weep from the strangeness, and yet intrinsic rightness, of it all. 

So they play, long into the afternoon. It’s nice. Normal - perhaps even more so than those distant, halcyon days before Cuba. Back then, Erik had been all rough edges and barbed wire, his childhood trauma and obsession with finding Schmidt transforming him into something feral. Erik’s mind had been a minefield of painful memories and a deep, animalistic fury that never seemed to leave him be. The Erik sitting before him now, the one who is flirting with him, smiling at him, offering him a home...he is a different man. He is, for the first time that Charles has known him, content, and it’s beautiful. He is beautiful. 

Soon the sun is setting, bleeding golds and pinks and oranges across the Parisian skyline, saturating the heavens like a watercolour painting. Street lamps flicker on, and it becomes a little too dark to continue their game. 

“Where are you staying?” Erik asks as he packs away the board. “I’ll walk you there.”

“Am I truly to believe that you don’t already know?” Charles asks, faux surprise plastered across his face before it melts into a wry smirk. 

Erik chuckles. “I thought I’d give you a chance to tell me yourself.”

The proposition is evident, and Charles suddenly feels uncommonly shy, for no reason other than the other man’s pointed gaze that is threatening to turn his limbs to jelly. 

He tries to keep his voice steady as he mutters, “I’m more than capable of looking after myself. I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” and what is this, their first date? How many years has he known this man? 

Erik seems to think the same thing, his amusement evident in the cheeky quirk of his lips as he gazes at him. “A little late in the game to be feeling shy, isn’t it, Charles?” 

“Oh shut up. You would be too if I just showed up on Genosha with no warning and started...talking to you,” Charles grumbles, but there is no heat behind it. 

At the mention of his new home, Erik’s expression dims somewhat. Charles can hear him thinking, the cogs of his brain turning slowly as they gaze across the table at each other. His mind, although locked tight, is tinted the deep violet of thoughtfulness, wisps of emotion trickling through the cracks. 

“I meant it, Charles. I want to give you a home. Genosha will welcome you, if you’ll have it.”

The ‘_ if you’ll have me’ _goes unspoken, but Charles doesn’t need to read Erik’s mind to know that it’s there. He isn’t entirely sure what to say - how long has he dreamt about this very scene, Erik opposite him, eyes warm and welcoming? It’s too much for his battered heart to bear, and so he says nothing, making sure to leave a healthy tip on the table before wheeling himself back and turning out onto the street. Undeterred by his companion’s silence, Erik follows suit, shortening his stride so that they are moving in tandem with each other. 

They remain silent for a while, basking in this newfound calm they seem to have settled into. It’s only as they are passing over a bridge, alight with wrought-iron street lamps and the harsh brilliance of passing cars, that Erik murmurs, “I don’t regret many things, Charles.”

Pausing, Charles glances up at the other man, feeling something sour and dangerously close to suspicion beginning to curdle in his gut. God, are they really going to talk about politics now?

“I gathered that, old friend,” he says, treading carefully. Today has been so unexpectedly wonderful - it would be such an enormous pity if they were to ruin it all now.

Erik is quiet for a while, the white noise of the city surrounding them their only accompaniment. Charles wishes he could catch a glimpse, however fleeting, of the other man’s mind - just a taste, enough to judge the flavour, the consistency. But he won’t. Erik’s mind is as closely guarded as ever, and Charles can’t quite bring himself to squander the shaky trust that has finally started to re-form between the two of them. 

“I don’t regret many things. My views, the things I’ve done to implement those views...I believe that what I have done in the past was for the greater good of mutantkind. I may have put down my sword since arriving on Genosha, but that doesn’t mean it is lost.”

Charles knew as much, but it hurts no less to hear it from Erik’s lips. He keeps his mouth firmly shut, instead choosing to gaze out at the glittering, liquid shifting of the Seine, its blackened waters afire in its reflection of the city crouching upon its banks. 

“But I do regret what I did to you, old friend.” 

Charles squeezes his eyes closed, face downturned, refusing to look at the other man as he says with wry humour, “Yes, well...we’ve neither of us had an excellent track record for friendliness towards the other, have we?” 

Erik doesn’t laugh, as Charles hoped he would. They’re in the middle of the goddamn _ street _ for pity’s sake - there are _ people _here and the conversation that they seem to be approaching is one that Charles would much rather they had in a private place, away from prying human eyes. Though of course Erik has always had a bit of a flair for the dramatic, and couldn’t give two shits about what humans think. He’s cornering Charles, forcing him to face the situation head-on. Charles hates him just a little for it. 

Erik must see something in his expression once again, (this man knows him too well, _ too well _ , and it’s in equal parts terrifying and exhilarating), because all of a sudden he is bending down and there are fingertips brushing his own. And with that point of contact something flares, and suddenly Charles can _ see _. 

He gasps, short and sharp, breathing out a hushed, ‘Erik’, before he feels the fingertips of Erik’s other hand tracing the skin of his temple, and Charles finds himself teetering on the brink, a breath of air enough to send him toppling into complete immersion. Erik’s mind is tangible, his rich, beautiful, wonderful mind that Charles has not touched to this degree of intimacy since before Cuba, that is opening to him by increments. He turns to face the other man, finding their heads level with one another, and _ oh hell this is the closest they’ve been in years. _

“Erik, what are you…”

“Charles, stop thinking. I want you to see.”

And Charles takes a final look at Erik’s face, more open and trusting than he has ever seen, and lets himself fall.

—

Erik is a man of action. Violent and windswept and edged with steel, he’s never been one to mince his words, or to use the powers of rhetoric to get himself out of a sticky situation. That was always Charles’ forte. Why waste time talking when you could resolve an issue by dealing with it hands-on? Erik has found, over the years, that talking very rarely leads to the desired conclusion. A knife against the jugular is usually a much greater incentive, and often far more satisfying. 

So when he sees that age-old expression on Charles’ face, the one he usually wears when he is trying hard to stay out of Erik’s head, he makes an executive decision and, for the first time in what feels like forever, lets go. Not completely, of course. He knows enough about Charles’ powers to know that full release would be overwhelming for the other man, at least at this proximity. But he opens up just enough for a little of himself to spill forth into the ether, and when Charles’ mind skims against his own with intimate purpose for the first time in thirty years, he finds himself pushing closer, forehead pressing against his, mind opening wider, ushering the telepath in.

Somewhere at the back of his brain he is aware of Charles’ hands coming up to cup his face, fingers pressing against his temples, but it is nothing compared to the sensation of Charles in his mind, entwined with him, soft and a little timid but so palpably _ there. _

_ Oh Erik, my dear. It has been a long while, hasn’t it? _

He gasps, a sunburst of colours flashing behind his eyelids as the two of them meld, tender and yet tinged with flame, all the while doing his best to project the message to _ look, Charles, look, see me, see all of me. _

It’s like being submerged in starlight, like wading waist-high through a stream amber-lit by the sun above. Like coming home. Memories are pulled into the light, memories that Erik has kept buried for many years, of Charles’ face thirty years younger, unburdened by the trials of the future, blue eyes bright and determined and so full of love that Erik doesn’t know what to do with himself. And then here comes an answering image of his own face, skin smoother and hair darker, grin like a switchblade. He’s golden at the edges, and Erik is confused because he doesn’t remember ever having looked this happy as a young man, before realising that he is seeing himself as Charles remembers him, minds so bound up in one another that there is no longer any sure divide between the two of them. 

_ You paint me in an extremely flattering light, Charles, _he says, and he thinks he hears a laugh, soft and throaty, before Charles answers him. 

_ A funny thing, love. Makes us do the strangest things, think the strangest thoughts. _

It is Charles who eventually pulls away, his mind gradually slipping from Erik’s little by little until they are two separate beings once again. He keeps a gentle grip on Erik’s face, however, and when he murmurs, “Oh no, my love, please don’t,” Erik is distantly aware of the fact that there is wetness on his cheeks, warm and salty, that Charles wipes away with his thumbs. 

“I didn’t think we would be able to do this again,” he whispers, voice hoarse as he tries to conceal the fact that he is minutes away from a minor breakdown. 

Charles doesn’t speak, but when Erik looks up at him he is gratified to see that the other man is looking just as wrecked as he feels, eyes red-rimmed and suspiciously glossy. He wants to kiss him so very badly, and so he does, just once, a brief press of lips against lips that lingers for only a moment before he makes to pull away again. But then he feels a hand in his hair, gentle but insistent, and finds himself being drawn back into something softer and longer, Charles’ lips slightly chapped and tasting of salt. 

_ Oh, my love, _Charles breathes, voiceless, and Erik feels filled to the brim, heart beating a relentless ostinato in his chest as he presses forward, tongue tracing Charles’ lower lip before he pulls back with a soft, muted sound. 

_ I’ve missed you, _he projects, and when Charles smiles, raw but so breathlessly happy, he imagines he can feel the world tip back onto its axis, everything sliding back into place. 

_ And I you, my love. And I you. _

**Author's Note:**

> So, whaddaya think? I've not been writing regularly for a long time now - it's been coming in drips and drabs but I tend to have to work based on whenever I feel like I can, really, which isn't always that often. Anyway, thank you so much for reading and please leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed it. Feedback is the air I breathe <3 Thanks so much!


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